I hate it.
I want to reach inside my throat and tear the Thompson out of my voice.
I park at the curb and sit for a moment. My truck is a used thing, dented and unpretentious, but as I look at my reflection in the rearview mirror, I barely recognize the person staring back. The polished, architectural brilliance is gone. My face is leaner, the jawline sharper from skipping lunches to finish a framing job. I’m wearing a simple navy button-down—cotton, not silk—and a pair of jeans that have seen their fair share of mud.
The only thing that doesn’t fit is the watch. The Patek Philippe sits on my wrist like a heavy, golden manacle. The only reason why I didn’t donate it or sell it like I did the Audi was because it was my grandfather’s.
When I step out, gravel crunches under my boots. I walk up the path to the Matthews’ door, my heart a frantic, uneven beat against my ribs. I don’t ring the bell. I knock. Three solid thuds.
The door opens, and Jake Matthews stands there.
He doesn’t look like a man who wants to hear a speech. His face is a landscape of lines and weathered pride, his eyes two hard flints that see right through my new clothes and into the Thompson-shaped hole in my soul.
“Skyler,” he says.
“Jake. I…I hope I’m not interrupting.”
He studies me for a long time. He looks at my boots, the sawdust on my shoulders, the way I’m standing—not with the practiced posture of an heir, but with the slight slouch of a man who spent all day on his feet.
“You look different,” he says. It’s not a compliment.
“I am different. Or I’m trying to be.”
He lets out a slow breath and steps back, gesturing me into the house. “Come in. But keep it quiet. We’re about to have dinner.”
Walking into the living room, I’m suddenly aware that Harley’s things don’t appear to be here. I expect a book, or two sets of shoes, or a spare cardigan hanging over a chair. But all I see are items that clearly belong to Jake and Maria.
I sit on the edge of the couch, my hands clasped tightly between my knees. My calluses feel rough against my skin. Jake stays in the doorway, his presence a silent guard.
“She’s in the kitchen,” Jake says. “I’ll get her. But Skyler? One wrong word and you’re out the door. I don’t care what kind of truck you’re driving now.”
“I know. Thank you.”
A few minutes pass.
Harley appears in the archway, and the air leaves the room. She’s more vibrant than I remembered, no longer the shell of a woman I left drowning in white silk and Thompson expectations. She’s wearing a simple green sweater and leggings, her hair loose and messy around her shoulders. Her face is clear, her eyes sharp.
She stops a few feet away, hands tucked into her pockets.
“Skyler,” she says.
I stand, my limbs feeling heavy and uncoordinated. “Harley. You look incredible.”
“I look like myself,” she counters, her voice flat. “What are you doing here?”
“I moved out.” The words tumble out, clumsy. “I left the firm. The mansion. I’m in a studio in the city now.”
She doesn’t blink. “Okay.”
“I’m working for a housing charity,” I press on, needing to fill the silence. “Design-build. But mostly build.”
She tilts her head, confused. “You’re building?”
“They don’t have the budget for a full crew, so we all put in the sweat equity. If I draw the wall, I have to help frame it.”
I run a hand through my hair, realizing too late how rough my palm feels against my scalp. I drop my hands, letting them hang by my sides. They are tanned, scarred, and calloused—a violent contrast to the Patek Philippe that still glints on my wrist with sterile perfection.
Harley’s gaze drops to my hands. She stares at the fresh nick on my knuckle.
